White petals spin and curl on their way

down to the depthless sea.

The woman and her basket, her hand flashing red

in quick soft motion scattering these

pure wings, to ride a moment on the wind.

She stands, a forlorn goddess birthing flight

that fails and falls on the river’s broad breast.

A basket of birds destined to drown.

See her weep in the city’s drawn shadow

her hand a thing disembodied,

carrion-clawed and ceaseless in repetition,

she delivers death and in her eyes

is seen the horror of living.

Lady Elassara of Trate

Cormor Fural

MT, UK Trade, p.257